Cold
by The-Unsung-Writer
Summary: My life is withering away in the cold of hate and the freezing temperatures of my anguish. Please, tell me what I have done so that I can make amends to the sins of my past life. Please, an answer is all I ask for. Please.


I should have died. The pain of this world is so cold; every insult another mountain of ice to bury me in. A proverbial glacier enacted upon my body, crushing my will. My soul is so deeply encrusted with the cold and hateful feelings that surround me that I have nearly lost my will to live. The glares, comments, and disdainful attitudes wear down my psyche, while the mutilations, vicious beatings, and attempted murders bear down on me physically. What's more is that I can't die; no matter how hard they try to kill me, whether it be by throwing me off a ten story tower, slitting my throat, chopping me up, or any other form of dismemberment, I survive. My body bears no scars of the abuse, but my mind remembers everything in vivid detail, the ten story falls, the bloody slices, the broken necks, and even the most lethal poisons' effects are remembered in such graphic detail that I myself vomit at the conscious act of remembering the many ways I have died. My memories visit me in my dreams, if you could call them that, having to live through the abuse every night, just to have some rest. I gave up on sleep weeks ago, trying to avoid my past and hide from the present.

In my attempts to end it before it could get worse, I've committed suicide 187 times, all of them complete failures. It was not a complete surprise, by the fact that I have been lynched many more and survived. The pain gets duller and duller every time and the time that passes gets shorter and shorter. I think they are beginning to realize, I can't be killed.

What's amazing is that I remain calm throughout all this. I do not struggle as they slit my throat, slowly choke me, or plummet to the hard, unforgiving streets. I keep hoping that this will be the time they kill me, that this will be the last time my throat is slit, my neck broken, or nearly bisected by a villainous villager. Every time I am not given the cold comfort of death.

I do have some happiness in my life; one of the good things about the world turning against you is that the things that can bring a smile to your face are so small that almost any interaction can bring a warm grin to your face. The laughter of a child, the sounds of music, the harmony of friendship, or even the simple fall of snow on a chilly winter night can bring happiness to my face. Though how I wish for a chance to have friends, dance in the rain, or even have a laugh that is not forced instead of hearing others make the melodious harmonies of humanity then shun me from ever contemplating such an act.

May it be due to the fact that they view me as a demon, an animal of sorts, one that needs to be slaughtered? I do not believe that even they think that high of me, because even animals can live their lives as they wish before their end. I am not of the breed of human to them, I am something worse, something far worse.

I may find momentary happiness in the joy of others, the natural grace of my small world, and the liveliness of humanity as a whole, but I do not find lasting grace in anything that I see. My world revolves around a near complete emptiness, emptiness that I cannot fathom how deep its depths reach.

Words are for those who have something to say, but my attackers are always silent, always void of sound, always calculating to a point where it seems they are professionals of their skills. One of those skills is one to kill me. Attacks can only cut so deep, but words scar permanently. A sword hurts for a moment, but then dulls as it finishes its job. A derogatory sentence can keep with the victim for the foreseeable future and will scar the memories of anyone who is assaulted by a vengeful sentence. Funny, the villagers have not caught on to this tactic yet, the worst I have yet to have endured are the hateful remarks heard at random from a select few who are smarter than the average brute.

My future seems nonexistent at best, and the same as it is now at worst. I hope there is a god out there, because I need to believe that there is something better than this at the end of the line, wherever it may be. My head is collapsing at the thought of a future where the end is not a blessing, but a curse. I cannot take the thought of a world worse than this. What horrors could fill a world where my current life would look like a day at the beach?

What did I do to deserve this? What did I do in a past life that made god want to punish me to such an extent? God, what did I do that I deserved such a life? I am begging you in tears, in blood, in life, give me an answer, what did I do to deserve such anguish, such hate, such a reprimand? Please, just an answer is all I ask for, answer my prayer and let me know what justifications you have to punish me so!

Can I ask for redemption, a path that I can take to show that I have paid for my sins in a past life? I can only hope that you can see that my world is crumbling down and only you are the one capable of showing me an anchor where I may have a chance to stop the anguish that cuts my soul every day. Please, show me a path that I can take to carve an existence that will allow me to live out my sentence you have given upon me. My heart is aching to the point of no return, my body is breaking, my life is crumbling down, please, tell me what I have done. Please.

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><p>AN:<p>

This came to me after a few hours of listening to some absolutely dreary piano music, I wanted to explore this plot slightly more than my other stories and test how far my writing has come. Hopefully this will mean a better chapter to come, if I can have enough time to myself to write another chapter.

The-Unsung-Writer


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